One Plus One (Equals Three)
by You've Got Fanfiction
Summary: It was never meant to be anything more than an innocent night between friends, but one month and a missed period later, it's about to become a whole lot more. ModernAU Elsanna g!p Anna
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** You can officially thank OFA for giving me all the Elsanna family feels and for inspiring me to give this fandom one last shot. I'll be editing/touching up chapters one at a time, though I have no official update schedule. At the very least, every Friday (though if I can squeeze another before or after, lucky you!) I'll be rewriting/updating my other fic "Be My Escape" as well, and probably working on a few smaller stories as they come along, so all I ask for is patience. I made the mistake of being a pushover before, but this time I assure you, I will not stand for the needy, greedy demands some (a few) of you felt entitled to. Otherwise, welcome back, and please enjoy.

* * *

There's something about her voice tonight — _unusually husky_ — the sound of it so piercing in the still of night that it sends shivers prickling through my skin. Perhaps it's the atmosphere; we're on the beach, after all, and it's night time. The moon is full, a radiant disk of white against the backdrop of blackened sky, floating high above us as though in quiet observance. Maybe it's because we're at a wedding, celebrating the union of two very good friends, and love saturates the salted air. It might even just be the alcohol.

(She's on her fifth glass by now, and there's still a whole bottle to be shared between us, though in her booze addled state, I'll be lucky to steal more than a few hasty sips.)

"H-have I told you… that you look… quite dashing in your outfit?" she slurs, arms clung to my waist as she supports herself against my sturdier — _and far less intoxicated_ — frame.

"Dashing?" I repeat, skeptically. Briefly, I glance down at my attire, finding it less than intriguing. It's nothing more than a buttoned white blouse tucked into dark grey slacks, hidden under the cover and warmth of one of my nicer leather jackets; entirely appropriate for the setting, but hardly _dashing_ if you were to ask my opinion.

"Yes, dashing!" she exclaims, beaming sideways at me.

On second thought, it's _definitely_ the alcohol, and I can barely repress an amused snort at her muddled attempt at flirting. Drunk Elsa is always an experience, but nothing I'm ever opposed to handling. Being the CEO and sole heiress to a rather prominent tech company — Queen Enterprises — she's often forced to work upwards to a hundred hours a week, rarely taking the proper time to care and look after her own well being.

As designated best friend, it's my honor and duty to ensure her good health and good spirits, intervening whenever she overworks, nudging her to take a step back and relax every so often. It's for this very reason why we find ourselves here now, sneaking away from the crowded tent of party goers in search of a more secluded setting. The ceremony was beautiful and the reception has been fun, but the energy is too rowdy for one of Elsa's temperament. I've known her long enough to see the tension in her shoulders, to recognize that anxious glint in her eye — the one she gets when she's feeling particularly overwhelmed — and I whisk her away to further decompress and unwind.

"Here," I say, once we're far enough away; still close so that we can hear the playing of the band, but distant to the point that we're all alone, no longer drowning in the sea of noisy chatter. Kicking a few tangled knots of seaweed to the side, I clear a spot on the sand for Elsa before helping her down, easing her gently into a seated position.

When she doesn't immediately topple over in some half-drunken haze, I release a silent sigh of relief and plop unceremoniously into the sand beside her, laughing as she reaches eagerly for the bottle of champagne in my hand. With a teasing smirk, I pull back, her hand trailing the receding the drink as she whines petulantly like a child. Playfully, I bring the lip of the bottle to my own mouth and tilt back, the golden liquid cascading down my eager throat as I try not to choke in laughter over the way she keens pitifully.

"Anna, share!" she demands, lips in full pout as she lunges forward and snatches it quickly from my grasp. Some of it spills onto my shirt, and even more into the sand, but Elsa doesn't seem to mind the mess. Either that, or she doesn't notice, too busy taking a sloppy swig of her own.

"Hey, slow down, will you?" I warn, though only half-heartedly. It's not often that Elsa let's herself go so unabashedly, and I'm inclined to let her enjoy herself however she sees fit. As it is, I'm blessed with a naturally high metabolism and can burn through alcohol like a furnace, meaning — if she so chooses — Elsa can get blackout drunk, and I still wouldn't worry about finding a way back to the hotel.

"Don't be such a killjoy," Elsa murmurs, sticking her tongue at me.

"Yeah, yeah. Well, one of us has to be," I say, swatting my hand at her before snatching back the bottle. "And close your mouth. You'll catch flies that way."

She makes a soft noise of thoughtfulness, as if genuinely contemplating the idea, her perfectly pink lips jutting out, and her rosy cheeks — flushed from the alcohol, or the cold, I cannot tell — ballooning upon her face as they expand with air. I can't help but roll my eyes at the strange expression, earning a giggle that she exhales in one sharp breath before dissolving into a fit of laughter. Seriously, drunk Elsa is such a child! Though, to be fair, sober Elsa is way too much of an adult, so I guess this balances things out. Plus, with all her responsibilities and duties, she deserves to act like a child every now and then.

Releasing a content sigh, I lay back, leaning against my elbows as I take another sip or two of the champagne. We were supposed to share the bottle, but between Elsa's earlier mishap and her hogging the drink, it's left only a third of the way full, and I'd like to _at least_ get a buzz before it's all gone. From the corner of my periphery, I can see Elsa prepare to make another leap for it, a predatory sort of glint in her eye as she makes grabby hands at the bottle.

Thankfully, I pull it away just in time to avoid her attempted theft, but am not so quick to get out of the way myself. She lands atop me with a heavy jolt, and I bite the inside of my cheek as she accidentally elbows me in the groin, refraining from letting her know my discomfort. You can imagine this has happened before, and if experience has taught me one thing, it's best to simply bite the bullet and keep quiet; as the last time I let her know, she had gotten a tad too handsy in her attempt to "make it feel better", and I'd rather not suffer through another repeat incident.

Instead, I shift around a bit until she's no longer crushing the precious family jewels, careful not to let any inappropriate parts bump. Elsa, as expected, is blissfully unaware of our compromising position, and swipes gleefully at the bottle, stealing it away again before I can properly react.

"Hey!" I cry, feigning indignation as she takes it. "Give it back! You've already had more than your fair share!"

With a mischievous grin, Elsa rolls off of me and, after a few bewildering attempts, manages to stand — albeit with the grace and balance of a two-year-old, but still she stands. Taking a heavy gulp of the drink, she playfully shakes the champagne at me and issues her challenge. "If you want it, come and get it," she dares, grinning manically as she takes off down the long stretch of sea and sand.

Naturally, she makes it no more than a couple of yards before she makes the unfortunate mistake of tripping over her own two feet, and the next thing I know, Elsa drops like a fly in the sand. A strangled choke escapes my lips, a cross between laughter and worry, and I'm not sure whether or not to feel amusement or concern as I watch her flail in the sand, drowning in her dress like some sad, beached whale.

Suddenly, she shrieks as the waves crash in around her, and it strikes me that she's fallen dangerously close to the water. Elsa is inebriated, her dress is heavy, and there is little in the way to stop her from being swept out to sea. But, because she is Elsa, and because she is drunk, _of course_ she manages to save the champagne before even making any attempts to save herself.

I have the undeniable urge to smack a palm over my face at the absurdity of it all, but I have more pressing matters to attend to. Like rescuing Elsa, for instance, because apparently she has little to no sense of self-preservation when even remotely smashed.

I'm at her side in a heartbeat, dragging her away from the incoming tide and further along the beach. She's far from heavy, but playing tug-of-war with the ocean is no easy task, only made more difficult by Elsa's frantic squirming. It's only when we're safely out of the water's reach that I release her, falling sideways to lay beside her as the adrenaline fades and I'm left panting for air.

"Okay," I say, once I've finally caught my breath. "I'm officially cutting you off for the rest of the night." The bottle is back in my possession before she can even acknowledge the words, and though she endeavors to wrestle it back, whatever attempt she makes to overpower me is easily deflected.

Instead, I roll over her, effortlessly pinning her arms together above her head as I wiggle my brows teasingly. Then, in playful wickedness, I toss back the bottle and drain it of its remaining contents, grinning as Elsa whimpers at the loss. Thinking I've finally won our little game, I rein back on my hold and loosen the grip I have on her wrists.

Immediately, she breaks free with an unexpected surge of strength, leaving me woefully unprepared for what happens next. Desperate hands clamp at the collar of my shirt, yanking me down until our lips meet, her tongue darting into my opened mouth and lapping greedily at the last few drops of champagne. I can do little more than brace myself atop her, careful not to crush her more delicate frame as she continues to siphon the remains of alcohol from my orifice.

Elsa leans back for but a fraction of a second, those icy blue eyes captivating me in their stare, and then she smiles. She smiles — tender and sincere — and moves back in, pressing her lips to mine again and again. Her name falls from my lips like a prayer, even as I struggle to resist, pulling away only for her to pull me right back in.

"E-Elsa, no… you need to stop this," I breathe, groaning as she releases my lips, only to nip heatedly at my neck and throat.

"I don't want to," she whines, latching onto taut flesh and sucking harshly, leaving a mark that will most certainly bruise.

"That's because you're… you're not thinking straight," I argue, my eyes fluttering shut as she continues the lay kisses against my skin, hands sliding down to tug my shirt loose. "Elsa, stop…"

"But it's been so long…"

And for good reason, is all I can think. It's not the first time we've been down this road, Elsa and I. We've known each other since early childhood, our friendship spanning nearly twenty years now, and we've had more than our fair share of "what if's" to last us a lifetime. It was almost inevitable that we try the whole relationship thing, making two earnest attempts to get things going, but either due to bad timing or conflicting life events, we never managed to work it out. (And don't get me started on that one time in college when we were stupid to believe ourselves mature enough to be 'friends with benefits' without things getting complicated — which it did, mind you, _very quickly._

No, history had shown time and time again that Elsa and I were never meant for anything more than friendship, and that was enough — it _had_ to be. Furthermore, we were both fine with the current arrangement, so why mess up a perfectly good thing?

"Elsa… you're drunk," I say, rolling away before she can further dig us into this hole of inevitable regret. There's a twinge in my chest — sharp, and painful, and oh so familiar — as I scoot farther back, creating space between her and I, obstinately ignoring the voices in my head urging me to reconsider.

She sighs loudly with defeat, heavy and relenting, and I turn to look over, watching as Elsa seems to curl in upon herself, knees drawing in as she wraps her arms around them in a lonely hug. It occurs to me then that she's wet — _soaked,_ _really_ — the fabric of her dress clinging to her figure like a second skin, and while she's always claimed to be unaffected by the cold, the last thing I want is her getting sick. Reluctantly, I return to her side, shucking off my jacket and draping it carefully over her pinched shoulders.

Elsa smiles and leans into me, tipping her head into the crook of my neck where she hums contentedly. I tense briefly, wary that she might try to start something up again, but all she does is nuzzle closer. Eventually, I lower my guard and slip an arm around her waist, tugging her further into the embrace in order to keep her warm.

"Anna," she murmurs, as several minutes come and go, ebbing away like the tide before us. A fleeting glance is all it takes, her lips stretched thin with quiet elation as she leans back, slowly taking me with her. Our eyes lock and my back hits the ground, but I'm still falling and so is she. I realize then that I have little choice in the matter; the heart wants what the heart wants, and in this moment, all it wants is Elsa. She lays next to me in the cool, damp sand, a finger tracing lazily into the curve of my side. Bathed in moonlight, her pale features and soft platinum hair radiate an almost ethereal beauty, and from that moment on, no more words are shared.

We fall in love in the silence… but only for tonight.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:** I'm glad to see that I still have some old readers around, and a warm welcome to any newcomers. I'm trying to clean up and edit the chapters when I can, but due to time constraints, there will probably be an upload every other day or so. I still need to work on my other fic as well, but I just haven't gotten around to it yet. Anyway, thanks for sticking with me guys!

* * *

Humans are hardwired to survive — it's in our nature.

Ingrained into our very DNA is the will to live, and we are inherently programmed to take whatever steps necessary to prolong our life span for as long as physically possible. Fear — base, raw, mortal fear — is the dividing line in our species, and who we are — our strength of character— is defined by how we acknowledge and ultimately react to that fear.

By definition, the fight-or-flight response is a psychological reaction that occurs in response to a perceived attack, aggressive stimulant, or threat to one's continuity. Most people, when faced with danger or mortal peril, will oftentimes choose the safer route of self-preservation and aim to flee. I, however, am not "most people". Perhaps it's the proud Viking blood that flows through me, or maybe it's even just a redhead thing, but I tend to lean heavily towards the " _fight first, ask questions later"_ mentality. Even when the odds are stacked against me, I'm either too rash, too stubborn, or too stupid to ever back down (or, in many cases, a combination of all three).

It's… kinda my thing? (They don't call me _feisty-pants_ for nothing, after all!)

But, one look into those piercing blue eyes, and suddenly, I am no better — nor more braver — than the seven billion other people that call this planet home. Whatever bravado I may have had hoped to convey is immediately replaced by basic instinct, and currently, that instinct screams at me to run away. My mind urges me to make my escape, but my body refuses to listen, overwhelmed and short-circuited by the rush of panic that floods my veins.

Until this very moment, I was of the impression that horror movies were no more than an overly gory lie, that it was Hollywood's way of building suspense by having a character freeze in terror only moments before they were to be savagely mauled by whatever ghost or demon that haunted them. Unfortunately, it's a lesson I learn far too late, so paralyzed by fear that I am. _Seriously,_ how is it possible for someone to be so completely and utterly incapacitated by terror, that they are left so defenseless when it matters the most?

I mean… really!? This is a HUGE oversight on the part of human evolution…

"Anna." Her voice is low, and she's angry. But why — _why, God, why!?_ — is she angry?

They say ignorance is bliss, but presently, I find that difficult to believe. In all the years that we've been friends, I've only ever seen Elsa angry a small handful of times, and never once was I on the receiving end of it. Sure, she's been annoyed and frustrated with me in the past, but never _angry_ — and certainly not to this degree!

Her face is a motley of crimson, and a thick vein pulsates violently at the corner of her temple, prompting me to momentarily worry that she might burst an artery (or worse). But when she doesn't instantaneously combust, and fails to be consumed in a raging blaze of Hellfire, my main concern returns to my own well-being as I brainstorm solutions to this strange (and frightful!) predicament I now find myself in.

"Anna," she repeats, taking a threatening step forward. Unconsciously, I take one back.

It doesn't even occur to me that I'm twenty something feet in the air, standing safely atop the roof of a house, and she's stuck on solid ground wearing _high-heels_. My current risk of physical harm is almost zero to none, but even with the odds stacked in my favor, the danger in the air is near palpable, and my body chooses to react accordingly. Discreetly, I break eye-contact just long enough to glance pleadingly at the workers beside me. Regrettably, the group mentality seems to be that I am to be left to fend for myself, as each and every one of them deliberately avoid my gaze.

' _I am your boss!'_ I want to demand, mentally stomping my foot in indignation. ' _If I die, NONE of you are getting paid!'_ I mean, seriously… couldn't they at least _act_ like they're worried for me? Instead, they turn away, continuing to lay new shingles while obstinately ignoring my presence. Bloody traitors…

"Anna," Elsa says for the third time, and this time, it's followed by more, "Get down here. NOW."

I… I want to cry. I don't know _why_ , but I do. I've got a bad feeling about this. Something in my gut just doesn't sit right, and I can practically feel it twist itself into knots. I mean, technically, it _could_ just be the breakfast burrito I had scarfed down this morning, but this doesn't seem like your run-of-the-mill indigestion. It carries a far more foreboding tone, and lacks the distinct aftertaste of refried beans and guacamole.

Suddenly, Kristoff — my business partner and other best friend since high school — steps out through the front door, where he had been spearheading the kitchen cabinet renovations. Frantically, I wave to gain his attention, but he takes one look at me, one look at Elsa, and promptly turns on his heel and marches back inside. The look he gives me before he disappears clearly reads, "Sorry, but you're on your own."

I don't cry — at least, not outright — but this time there is nothing to stop the pitiful whimper that escapes my throat. I've never felt so pathetic in all my life, and yet, I can't find it within me to care. Elsa, for one reason or another, is angry at me, and I really, really, _really_ do not want to know why. By now, she's starting to get impatient; I can see it in the way her stance shifts, arms once crossed now sliding down to place her hands firmly atop her hips, her right foot tapping restlessly.

"I'm going to give you to the count of three," she warns, and I can literally feel myself go cold as the blood drains from my face. Elsa only counts to three when she's truly irritated, and I've learnt on more than one occasion that lack of compliance leads to ugly results.

"One…" she begins, and my stomach sinks.

"Two…" she continues, and I scramble to undo my safety harness while simultaneously gunning for the ladder.

"Thr—" the harness is off, and I'm two steps down the ladder, but in my haste to reach the bottom, I begin to sway. Abruptly, Elsa cries my name, her tone no longer angry but filled with worry as I lose balance and tip backwards. Awkwardly, I cling to the rungs, wondering how and why the house is falling away, listening on in confusion as the others start to yell as well.

Curiosity and confusion get the best of me, and I try to ask what's wrong, but my body is once again frozen. Then it hits me. And when I say _it_ , I mean the cold, hard ground. I'd sigh, but everything hurts.

This year's Darwin Award goes to…

* * *

You know that saying? The one where they go, "Oh, it's not as bad as it looks!" You know the one I'm talking about, right? Right. Well, whoever said that first was wrong. They were wrong in so many ways, and on so many levels… they were _wrong, wrong, wrong!_

This is _exactly_ as bad as it looks! Maybe even _worse!_

"Oh, shit… Anna!" Elsa gasps, hand held to her mouth in horror as she rushes to my side. _Oh shit, Anna, is right._

The ladder, which had fallen atop me, is ripped and thrown carelessly to the side by Kristoff, who had rushed outside see what had caused the commotion. He carefully drags me out of the bushes that had miraculously broken my fall, though the spasms of pain radiating down my spine do little to assure me that I had escaped this ordeal entirely unscathed. They lay me gently in the grass, Elsa cradling my head and neck as she strokes her fingers through my hair, murmuring apologies and soft assurances that everything would be okay.

"Crap, Anna," Kristoff groans, pulling out his phone as he dials for help. "Just stay still and don't move, okay? I'm going to—hello? Yes! I need an ambulance right away. My friend, she fell off the roof and—"

As he continues to speak with the dispatcher, Elsa cups my cheeks and leans over me, resting her forehead atop mine. Staring this closely, it's impossible to miss the tears in her eyes, and despite the obvious pain of falling, nothing hurts me more than seeing Elsa distressed or upset.

"Sorry," I wheeze, offering a cheeky grin as comfort, "I didn't think I could fall so hard for you."

She gives something of a mix between laughter and a sob, and it's just enough to ease the worst of her worry away. "You dork," she sighs, shaking her head ruefully.

"Maybe, but that makes me _your_ dork," I reply, leaning slowly to press a kiss to her cheek. She smiles and gives a soft noise of contentment, and I stare upwards into those icy blues, searching for the answer to a question I was still too hesitant to ask.

Elsa, of course, is far more astute than I give her credit for and easily senses my thoughts. "You wouldn't answer your phone," she explains, somewhat shyly. "I've been trying to get ahold of you since last night, and I must have left at least a dozen voicemails and texts. But you wouldn't respond…"

"Aw, damn. Elsa," I say, grimacing, both in remorse and in pain. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to ignore you, honestly! It's just… we're only one week from open house and there's still so much that we haven't gotten done. I stayed here overnight, and only stopped back home for a change of clothes and food. I didn't even think to check my personal phone… I'm really sorry."

Her lips form a faint smile, eyes flickering briefly to take in a more critical view of the house. Kristoff and I were house flippers, and this was our latest project — a two story Colonial that we had snagged at auction for a steal. Occasionally, Elsa had served as a financial backer, and it was common for her to visit us from time to time to inspect our work, though this was the first time she'd been to this particular sight.

"It's nice," she comments, "I like what you did with the color scheme. It really pops out, especially in this neighborhood." My chest swells with the praise, and I release a silent breath I hadn't known I'd been holding. Ever since we were young, I had always secretly vied for Elsa's approval in the things I did, and though I still don't quite understand the motivation behind it, it's a habit carried over well into our adulthood.

"Anyway…" she goes on, "I… uh, I apologize for startling you, and for showing up unannounced as I did. I shouldn't have come at you so aggressively, and I should've waited to approach you with a more level head. But I didn't… and now you're hurt…"

Elsa's smile doesn't fade, but it does falter, and whatever pain I feel at this moment is overridden by a rush of worry. "You're upset," I observe, quietly, "You tried to call me, I didn't respond, and for your own valid reasons, you panicked. I was being a lousy best friend, and it's my fault for not paying attention. You needed me, and I wasn't there. And whatever it is that's got you so—"

I'm cut off as sirens sound in the distance, wailing their arrival, and Kristoff — who had been keen enough to know we needed to talk — runs out onto the street to hail them over. Elsa shushes me, silencing the words in my throat as she orders me to relax, moving aside as the paramedics come in with their gurney and backboard.

She hovers anxiously in the background, never straying too far out of view as they begin their assessment, making sure to stay in my line of sight as they secure a collar around my neck and gently maneuver me onto the board. Only when I'm securely strapped in does she return to my side, slipping her hand between mine as the medics prepare to wheel me away.

"I'm coming with her," she states simply, leaving no room for argument as she follows the crew. They load me into the back of the rig, and Elsa is quick to climb in after, keeping just enough distance to give them room to work.

My eyes remain steadfastly on her throughout the entirety of our journey, using her as a focal point to ground myself against the continuous waves of pain. Her hand squeezes mine reassuringly, and she speaks up for me as much as she can so that I don't have to, though she turns bashful when the medic asks if I had fallen due to accident, or if I had passed out beforehand.

She explains it was an accident, and I grunt in confirmation, feeling tired, sore, and dizzy now that the earlier adrenaline fades. He nods and returns to writing his report, and Elsa sighs softly, mumbling something curious beneath her breath. I can only just catch the phrase, "I guess this makes us even," which only baffles me further.

It repeats in my mind, over and over again like a mantra. I'm perplexed by its meaning, though I'm no longer feeling well enough to speak. Still, I ponder the expression all the way to the hospital.

" _I guess this makes us even."_

What a strange thing to say…


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N:** Sorry for the wait. This was supposed to go a lot more quickly, but my laptop is kind of on its last legs, and being able to use it often hit or miss. But, today is a good day for my faithful companion, and I was able to edit a chapter before I run off for the evening. Glad so many of you are still enjoying at as much as you did the first time around. And just in case I don't get another update in, an early Merry Christmas to those of you that celebrate it, and happy holidays to all!

* * *

The menu is a lie.

Sauteed beef and mushrooms smothered in a rich sauce of tomato and sour cream, served atop a bed of white, fluffy rice. _That_ is what I ordered and what I assumed I would receive. What I _got_ , however, is unlike anything I'd ever seen. Clumps of gray and brown sprinkled intermittently throughout a glop of reddish-orange goop — as if _vomit_ eloped with _diarrhea_ , and this was the ill-fated result to their sick and twisted tale. ( _Though still infinitesimally a better love story than Twilight!_ )

The meal stares at me and I stare back, looking equally as dejected as the pitiful excuse of an entree that sits atop my table tray. Hospitals aren't exactly known for serving five-star food, but not even my lowest expectations could be met by this monstrosity of a meal. In fact, the only edible portions appear to be the small dinner roll that sits untouched to the side — _thank god for small miracles_ — and a chocolate pudding cup which, when compared to the rest of my food, is practically gourmet.

Maybe the fall hadn't been enough to kill me, but I'm slowly beginning to think that perhaps I had suffered a far worse fate…

Starving, I resign myself to the fact that I'll just have to make do, reaching greedily for the pudding and tearing off its plastic seal. Grabbing the spoon, I only just dip the flat, circular head into that sweet, velvety goodness when a harsh cough distracts me from my task. Glancing up, I'm met with Elsa's disapproving stare, her sapphire eyes gleaming at me over the top of her work tablet.

"What?" I ask, innocently enough. Her brow quirks questioningly, lifting as though to say, ' _Really?'_

"Anna, that pudding is for _dessert_ ," she admonishes, setting the device aside so that she can cross her arms in obvious disapproval. "Eat your dinner first."

Hah, sure. Me? Eat that? A big, fat _hell_ to the _no!_

"Nope! Nuh-uh, no way, _no how!"_ I reply, head shaking vigorously with rejection. "Have you even _seen_ what they've given me? C'mon, look! I'm not sure they're even legally allowed to call this food!"

Elsa sighs with clear exasperation, standing from her seat as she makes her way towards the side of my bed. A look of repulsion is quick to take its place, throat bobbing with a barely repressed gag, though she's deft at hiding it, adopting a well-practiced look of stoic professionalism. Of course, I've known her almost my whole life, so there's no disguising her disgust from me — as well concealed as it is. Still, she pretends to be unaffected, giving off an air of indifference as she says, "Don't be so fickle, Anna. It's not _that_ bad."

"Oh, really?" I scoff, sliding the tray in her direction. "Then _you_ eat it," I challenge, finding a modicum of satisfaction in the way she flinches back, instinctively placing as much distance between herself and the food as possible without physically moving from her spot. _Hah! 'Not that bad,' my ass!_

"No, this is for you," she insists, frowning deeply. "You haven't eaten anything since this morning, and you'll need _something_ in your stomach before they can give you further medication."

"But I don't _need_ more medication," I argue, huffing. "I'm fine now. I mean, yeah, definitely hurts! But I'll live."

Lucky doesn't even begin to cover how fortunate I am to have survived the fall, sustaining only a couple of broken ribs and a minor crack to the sternum. Compared to what other injuries I _could_ have had — _head trauma, a severed spine, nerve damage just to name a few_ — I think it's safe to say I walked away from this one relatively unscathed. And the pain, while still very much there, had dulled to a more tolerable ache, making me reluctant to introduce any more drugs into my system. I have nothing specific against modern medicine, but I was raised on the principle of "what doesn't kill you makes you stronger," and I'm willing to suffer a little just to prove it.

Elsa has never agreed with this particular belief of mine and, to be expected, is displeased with my answer, dragging her chair across the worn linoleum to settle down directly beside my bed. "Regardless," she says, picking up the fork and handing it to me, "You have a long recovery ahead of you, and your body will need plenty of nourishment in order to heal swiftly and effectively. _So eat._ Or must I feed you myself? Becuse don't think I won't."

I glance in her direction, eyeing her skeptically and snorting at the thought of Elsa physically forcing me to do anything that I don't want to. Sure, she's in great shape — there's no denying it — but a body built on cardio and yoga alone is nothing compared to one hardened and toned by years of sports, heavy lifting, and long hours of arduous labor. Seriously, even just the idea is laughable!

"Oh, yeah?" I dare, an inflection of defiance in my voice. I can feel my lips quirk into a confident grin. "I'd like to see you try!"

I — quite literally — eat my words only a moment later as Elsa swipes the fork from my unsuspecting hand and shovels a generous helping of food into my gabby mouth. If it weren't for the utensil currently crammed halfway down my throat, I might have actually been surprised at how _good_ it tastes. I mean, sure, it's not exactly up there on my "top ten greatest things I've ever eaten", but it's not nearly as bad as it looks ( _and it looks_ _bad_ ).

Still, I'm not about to give Elsa the satisfaction of knowing that she's made me eat, so I fight her off and spit into the nearest napkin. Yeah, yeah, I know — _childish_ , right? But I have my reasons, so don't be so quick to judge me, alright?

"Anna!" she scolds, glowering at me through narrowed eyes as her cheeks flush with frustration.

"Elsa," I retort bluntly, fighting to keep a straight face though the task proves difficult, especially when all I want is to see her express an emotion other than the constant agitation and worry that's been etched into her features all afternoon. To everyone else, she's held a face of perfect composure, but I've known her long enough to read between the lines, to see in between the in between. Her most glaring and obvious tick is the way she'll constantly flex her fingers, as if reaching for something that can't be touched, and it's all I need to know that something greater is bothering her.

I would ask outright if I knew she would answer me honestly, but I've had enough experience with Elsa to know that she won't, and so I hope to coax it out of her in the same way I've done for years. People often assume I'm just another happy idiot; I fight too much, I drink too much, and I like to play around. But I'm an actor more than anything, just another role in other people's lives, playing the part of whatever it is they need me to play.

And presently, I play the part of instigator.

Elsa stabs a sliver of beef — _or is that just a poorly cut mushroom?_ — and holds it to my lips, an expectant look upon her face. "Eat it," she demands, positioning the fork closer.

"No, thanks," I reply, lifting a hand and gently redirecting the fork away from my face. "I'm not hung—" In a horrible sense of timing, my stomach snarls ravenously, and I quickly alter my statement to, "I'd rather starve."

The look she gives me is one our government should weaponize immediately and use against our enemies, as it would surely win any war from now until the end of infinity. "Why are you being so stubborn?" she asks, eyes pinched with disapproval.

"Why are you being so insistent?" I counter, and she shakes her head at me.

Her mouth parts to retort, but she's cut off by the sound of her phone, its incessant ringing blaring to life in the most inconvenient way. Her jaw clenches, the muscles of her cheek twitching with annoyance; there's more she wants to say, but work — as always — comes first in her life, and she can't ignore it even if she tried.

With a weary sigh, Elsa grabs the mobile from her purse, shooting a pointed look between me and the tray a final time before slipping into the hall to answer the call.

* * *

"Anna… I'm pregnant."

The first time she says it, I don't quite catch on. Her words are soft, barely spoken, and said completely out of the blue. In fact, the first time she says it, I mistake the entire thing for a joke. Kristoff, who had left earlier to make sure our renovation was still underway, stopped by on his way back home and delivered us a glorious meal of burgers, fries, and double-chocolate milkshakes. Mouth stuffed to the brim with warm meat and oozing cheese, I instantly assume she means she's pregnant with a food-baby.

Because really… what _else_ could she possibly mean?

"Anna… I'm pregnant."

The second time she says it, the food is gone and we're not alone. My nurse — a tall, slim brunette by the name of Jane — is writing on the whiteboard hung up in my room, updating my condition and vitals. The marker squeaks against the board as she scrawls against it in neat, precise strokes. But then Elsa speaks up and the silence that follows is permeated only by the high-pitched squeal of the pen as Jane veers wildly off course, her hand sliding across the board and off towards the wall as she pauses abruptly in surprise.

We both stare and her cheeks flush. She quickly erases her mistakes and finishes with her charting before hastily excusing herself in a shy, stuttering English accent. As she leaves, she carefully closes the door to the room, but not before reminding me of the panic button on the control panel for my bed. "We'll have the crash cart ready…" I think I hear her say, just as the door is fully shut, leaving Elsa and I alone.

Our eyes lock and, for the first time in my life, I have nothing to say.

Or rather, I don't know _what_ to say. And, more than that, I find myself incapable of forming words, let alone coherent sentences. The only thing I manage to do is make a few, inconclusive grunts, sounding more like a Neanderthal than the modern day Homosapien that I'm supposed to be. I shift anxiously atop my bed, though even that proves difficult as I only end up aggravating my injuries, and I'm forced to repress the spasms of pain that shoot through me (lest Elsa mistake the look for something negative).

Despite my best efforts, she recognizes the tight lipped expression upon my face and is at my side in an instant, the tension momentarily vanished as she frets over me.

"Are you alright, Anna?" she asks, helping ease me into a more comfortable position. "What hurts? Should I find Jane? I told you to let her increase your dosage for the pain killers, but you wouldn't listen!"

"No, I'm fine. Don't worry," I reply, shaking my head. The feeling of two bones grinding together is not at all pleasant, but for Elsa, I'd endure just about anything.

Her look softens, a warm glow in her bright blue eyes, and she says, "I _always_ worry about you. You know I do."

A smile finds its way onto my own lips, and I scoot over until I'm pressed against the railing, making room for her on the bed. Elsa gives me an inquisitive stare, so I throw back the covers and pat the empty space beside me, inviting her in. She initially resists, but I tug her arm, gently coaxing her in until she finally relents.

Our bodies mold together like two pieces of the same puzzle, Elsa curling carefully into my side as I slip an arm around her shoulder to draw her in. Her head rests gently against the crook of my neck, loose strands of platinum hair tickling my chin; the room silent for several moments as we simply revel in the familiar warmth of each other's bodies.

Eventually, I tilt my head down and press a kiss against the corner of her brow, mumbling softly into her bangs, "Okay… so who's the poor, sorry bastard that I need to beat up?"

I can feel her lips twitch against my neck, curling upwards in a barely restrained grin. "I don't think that will be necessary," she says, and there's a hint of bemusement hidden beneath the softness of her voice.

"Oh, c'mon," I reply, nudging her playfully. "Don't take this moment away from me! Some irresponsible asshole has just knocked up my best friend, and you're saying that I _don't_ get to kick their ass for it?"

Elsa scoffs, a sharp exhale of breath that is both amused and exasperated, as she burrows further into my embrace. "Trust me, that ' _irresponsible asshole'_ you speak of has certainly suffered enough as it is," she sighs, shaking her head slowly, side to side.

"Oh, Elsa! No!" I gasp, feigning insult. "Don't tell me _you_ beat them up! But that's _my_ job… my birthright… my _sworn duty_! I've waited my whole life for this moment! How could you take it away from me?"

"Don't be so dramatic, _Anna_ ," she says, rolling her eyes, her exasperation nullified by the small grin she wears, though it fades quickly. "And please, be serious. There's… there's more that I need to tell you."

"More?" I repeat, wondering what else there was for her to say. I mean really, just "I'm pregnant" was a monumental statement all on its own, so for there to be _more_ …? Honestly, I'm not sure what to think.

"Yes, more," she replies, pausing briefly in hesitance before continuing, "I… I don't really know how to say this, but… the thing is, or, what I mean to say..." Once again she stops, swallowing a lump in her throat as she struggles to bring meaning to words.

"Hey, don't worry about it," I assure, rubbing a hand soothingly along her back in an effort to calm her nerves. "Just take your time. I'm right here whenever you're ready to talk."

She smiles gratefully and nods, burying her face against me as she takes several deep breaths. I wait patiently, allowing Elsa the time she needs to process her thoughts, and to come to terms with whatever it is that she needs to say. For a long time, all is silent, and I hold her closer; lending her my strength to help her through. Minutes pass and finally she lifts her head, a look of tired resignation etched into her features.

"Do you remember that night? The one we shared on the beach after Flynn and Rapunzel's wedding?" she asks, though the question is rhetorical, and I remain silent, waiting for her to elaborate. "I didn't really think much of it… after all, it's not like we haven't been intimate before, and you pretty much shoot blanks ninety percent of the time…"

My stomach clenches at the unintentional reminder that I'll most likely never have children, or a family of my own — not quite sterile, but close enough. Still, I push the thought aside and focus my attention on her as she speaks.

"As I said, I hadn't put much thought into the matter," she continues, "But… then I missed my period. At first, I just assumed I was late before I eventually concluded that I was simply under too much stress, and that my body's cycle had fallen out of rhythm. It was during the time we were merging several smaller companies under Queen Enterprises, and while not entirely common, I had missed a period once or twice before. So again, I didn't think much of it."

Elsa pauses, taking a moment to catch her breath before going on, "A few weeks later, however, I found myself feeling ill. I'd wake up with my gut twisted into knots, and even if my stomach was empty, I'd still heave into the toilet until I was too weak to stand. Along with that, I was constantly fatigued, and no matter how many hours I slept, I was always exhausted.

"I visited my physician, thinking I had come down with the flu or some other virus, but after running a simple assessment, turns out I had come down with something far more substantial…"

Our gazes find one another in an instant, and my stomach sinks slowly with understanding.

"Anna… I'm pregnant..."

The third time she says it, Elsa stares directly into my eyes, and something inside me just clicks. ' _Oh, no...'_ is all I can think, bracing myself for what I now know is to come.

"... and, for all intents and purposes… _you_ are the father."

Then, it hits me.

 _ **I'm**_ _the poor, sorry bastard that had knocked her up…!_


End file.
